Tale As Old As Time
by Rainbow Volcano
Summary: I love the old animated movie, but it has some plot holes and some problematic subject matter (yknow, good ol' stockholm syndrome and the like). And while the live-action version does fix many of these, it feels bland and soulless. So this is my attempt to reconcile the two, while paying homage to the original stories. A fun and tropey take on a classic fairy tale.
1. Prologue

Once upon a time, just outside of a little town in France, there lived a temperamental enchantress. She was as impulsive as she was powerful, and the villagers knew to stay away. The nearby king, however, did not, and the two long held a quarrel. The king had a son, a young prince who was conceited and vain. The enchantress hated him for his nasty temper and horrid attitude. But she had promised the king she would leave the child alone, for he was but a mere child.

The eve of his 18th birthday approached, when the prince would no longer be a child. The enchantress had not seen him in many years, and thought perhaps the prince might have changed his ways. So she devised a test.

She arrived at the palace with her invitation to the party in hand, disguised as an old beggar woman. At the door, she met the butler, who informed her that only invited guests were allowed inside. She procured her invitation and insisted on seeing the prince. The butler warned her that the prince was very busy and did not like unbeautiful guests. But she assured him she would wait, so he closed the door and went to fetch the prince.

The prince took so long that it began to rain, a cold icy downpour. If she were a real beggar woman, the enchantress knew she would be sick by now. She became furious at the prince's entitlement, making her wait in the rain.

At last the prince opened the door. He looked merry, and warm, and it made the enchantress' envy flare.

"Who are you, strange woman? I do not know you," said the prince.

"You do not recognize me without my tokens of beauty?" The enchantress asked.

"No," confirmed the prince. "And even if I did, how dare you think you can come to my home on my birthday without tokens of beauty. It's disgusting."

"I have an invitation." She held it up weakly. He snatched it from her hand and regarded it.

"This must have been forged or stolen. Not only are you ugly, but you're a liar and a thief to boot. You're far from invited anywhere near my castle."

The enchantress was outraged, but she kept her cool. "Would you offer me shelter, at least? I am but a humble old woman, and I could not walk home in this rain."

"Well, unless you can magically make it stop, you'll have to give it a try."

"I can offer, in exchange for my shelter, this rose." She pulled the rose out from her cloak. It was a gorgeous red flower, casting a dim glow. It was strong and vigilant, able to survive the fiercest storms.

But the prince sneered. "A flower? Are you joking? That is hardly payment for hailing a strange, disgusting old woman. Your filth would rub off everywhere and ruin my castle. Leave my property at once and interfere with my life no more, you old hag."

Outraged, the enchantress released her disguise and transformed into her true form: a beautiful young maiden. Seeing her true beauty and power, the prince fell to his knees and begged for forgiveness. But it was too late. The enchantress had seen the selfishness and arrogance in his heart, as well as his short temper and frivolous extravagance.

She turned him into a hideous beast, with long sharp claws, ugly fangs, and matted fur. He looked to be an enormous wolf, with large canine teeth, massive paws, and hidden ears. Only his eyes remained untouched by the transformation, as the enchantress could change his body but not his soul.

The prince cried in agony, and the guests quickly fled in fear of their lives. The servants, enraged by the enchantress's cruelty to their lord, spoke out against her.

"Be kind to the young master!" cried a portly old woman. "He's had an awful 'ard life, he has!"

"Indeed," continued a stodgy old man, "The master may have been rude to you, but you were quite a stranger, and a peasant! Not to mention an intruder to our castle on his birthday!"

"If you are punishing him for his behavior, please reconsider," urged the butler. "He has had no proper role models in his life, and no one to turn to for advice. His father was a wicked man, and his mother died when he was very young. Perhaps you could find a curse that was not so harsh?"

The enchantress considered their words a moment. "You say he has had no role models, but you are all here aren't you? I'd say you all are responsible for turning him into the monster he is on the inside. All I did was make the appearance and the heart match. Perhaps I should do the same to you?"

She paused, surveying the servants with their wide eyes. The room was silent save for the prince's wails of agony. "Well, you're doing nothing but sitting around. You useless things, you! That's what you've done the prince's whole life, isn't it?" Collectively, the servants ducked their heads in shame. "Oh! That's it! I'll turn you all into antiques! Since all you seem to do is sit around collecting dust anyways."

With a wave of her wand, the entire castle was enchanted. Her work finished and justice served, the enchantress nodded in satisfaction. Behind her, she left the enchanted rose. She explained that if the prince could learn to love and be loved in return before the last petal fell, the spell would be broken. If not, he would remain a beast forever, and the servants trapped as objects.

The prince despaired, and locked himself deep inside the castle. He was without hope. For who could learn to love a beast?


	2. Chapter 1: Behind That Fair Facade

CHAPTER ONE: Behind That Fair Facade

Isabelle readjusted her basket as she stepped past the front porch and onto the road to the village. It was a little town, a very quiet village. But that wasn't because no one talked. No, they talked quite a bit. But they kept their voices hushed, and preferred to whisper behind each other's backs. Together they whispered of each other's personal businesses, of mysterious woods teeming with hungry wolves, of a castle run by ghosts, of a vanished prince, of a mischievous and fickle witch. They flocked to one another to spread tales and half-truths, mostly about whatever thing they found to be the strangest. Isabelle couldn't recall the last time she'd spoken _to_ one of the villagers aside from the bishop, but they certainly talked about her.

"Look, it's her! The odd girl," whispered the baker as she walked passed his shop. "The funny young woman," replied his wife. "Oh, look, you can see her nose," said a farmer's wife, "It's not stuck in a book!" marveled her sister. "She _is_ beautiful," remarked the candlestick maker to his brother. "Yes, but, she's just so peculiar…" his brother responded. "She'll never get a husband if she's reading all the time. What a strange girl," said the village busybody. The girls listening all nodded in sync. "She's nothing like the rest of us," commented a housewife. "Behind that fair facade, she just doesn't fit in."

Isabelle entered the village library, which was a spare room in the back of the church. It was a quiet room, dusty, in need of care. It had all of three bookshelves, and only two were full. The third was installed by the bishop himself after Isabelle became the first to keep reading the books. When she kept coming back, he began acquiring more, and it became a sort of library, the likes of which they only had in the city.

"Back again, my dear?"

Isabelle looked up and saw the bishop, his face clean and robes neatly washed. He was the most honorable and kind man in town, but him being a man of God, he never liked to talk much, and preferred praying. Isabelle thought he must lead a lonely life. Perhaps that was why he let her read all the books.

"Father DeLivres! Yes, I came to return the book I borrowed." She offered him the book.

He adjusted his spectacles. "You finished it already?"

Isabelle smiled. "I couldn't put it down. Have you got anything new?"

The bishop chuckled. "Not since yesterday."

Undeterred, Isabelle wandered over to the shelves and began perusing the books. She had already read everything on the shelf, yet her hand gravitated towards a familiar title, _Eros and Psyche_.

"I'll borrow this one, please."

The bishop regarded the book. An old Greek fantasy, one that he had plucked from a burned building in Athens. It was falling apart at the seams, covered in ashes and cinders, and several words were smudged or burned away. "Truly?" he asked. "You've already read it twice. And the condition it's in…"

"Yes, but it's my favorite. I would read it a thousand times."

Again, the bishop chuckled. "If you like it so much, it's yours." He pressed the book into Isabelle's hands.

Her eyes widened, joy bubbling in her chest. "But Father, I could never-"

"I insist. No one around here is going to read it. You may keep it until it falls apart."

Isabelle couldn't hold back the grin that sprouted on her face. A book all of her own. It was only most of the story, and it likely wouldn't keep into next month, but it belonged to her. "Thank you, Father, thank you!"

The moment she stepped out of the church, she stepped into the world of _Eros and Psyche._

* * *

The din of a rifle shot echoed in the village. A duck plummeted to the cobblestone in the square.

"Nice shot, Gaston!" cried Lefou, the village idiot. Gaston blew away the smoke in from his rifle before twirling it in his palms and strapping it onto his back.

"I know," he replied, "I've never made a bad shot."

"Darn right!" Lefou affirmed. He scooped up the duck and stuffed it in the hunting bag before tottering over to Gaston. He towered over Lefou, with chiseled muscles and broad shoulders. He bright red tunic hugged his torso, highlighting his wide pectorals and perfect abs. His chin was sharp, his face was sturdy, his eyes were determined. All the ladies in the town were mad about him, and even Lefou couldn't resist his charms.

"Lefou, I've decided it's about time I take a wife, don't you think?"

Lefou felt his heart plummet like the duck Gaston shot from the sky. "Really? Who?"

Gaston palmed the top of Lefou's head and cranked his neck towards the village fountain. "I've got my eye on that little lady."

Lefou's eyebrows furrowed in confusion and jealousy. "The inventor's daughter?"

"That's the one," he affirmed. He shoved off Lefou's head from his hand and began to stride towards her.

"B-b-but, really? _Her_!?" Lefou asked, struggling to catch up.

"She's the most beautiful girl in town," Gaston reasoned. Lefou regarded her. He had to admit, the way her hair caught in the light was breathtaking, and her features were fair and lovely. Her hair was a light brown, airy and bouncy, with a stray hair that she had to keep tucking behind her ear. "If she's the most beautiful, that makes her the best. And don't I deserve the best?"

Lefou nodded vigorously. "Well, of course you do, but-"

"She's odd? If she's fair to look at, pleasurable in bed, and will bear me strong boys, she can read all day for all I care."

Lefou didn't like it. Why couldn't Gaston choose a woman who wasn't so odd and unnerving? Better yet, why couldn't Gaston just choose no one at all, and continue going on hunting trips with him?

While he was lost in his thoughts, Gaston had already made his way to the fountain. Lefou tottered to catch up, tiny legs carrying him and the heavy hunting bag as fast as they could.

"Isabella! Good to see you again!" Gaston greeted.

"Isa_belle_," she murmured, eyes still glued to the page.

"You know, I've just got back into town from my latest hunting trip. I've made quite a catch this time. How about this? I'll let you be the first to see it, hm?"

"That's nice," she murmured. Isabelle turned the page in her book. Gaston frowned.

He plucked the book from her hands, and held it up out of her reach. She let out a cry of panic, before turning cross.

"Gaston, return my book please," she stated coldly. He waved away her comment as he began carelessly tearing through the pages. It was falling apart, the pathetic thing.

"How can you read this?" he asked. As he flipped through rapidly, ashes flew up into the air and bits of the binding began to slip. "There's no pictures! And it's ugly and smoking."

Isabelle huffed. She was too short to reach up to Gaston's height, and she knew she would never beat him in a contest of strength. There was nothing she could do but pray he wouldn't hurt her fragile book any further.

He sighed, and tossed the book onto the ground. Isabelle let out a tiny shriek as she rushed to cradle her precious tale. It was covered in mud.

"Listen, Isabella-"

"My name is Isa_belle_."

"Right, well, why don't I just call you Bella? It's a cute name, right?

"Please don't call me that."

Gaston laughed heartily. "You don't have to worry. I won't let anyone else use the nickname. And since I'm the only one who calls you that, that makes me special!"

Isabelle fought the urge to slap him. She wiped off her book and set it in her basket. "I must be going home now. If you'll excuse me."

"Wait!"

"I'm glad your hunting trip went well, and that you and Lefou returned safely. Have a good day."

Gaston rushed ahead and stood right in front of her, blocking her path. He had an amused smile on his face, as if he thought it was all a game. "No, Bella, listen-"

She stopped, anger beginning to bubble. Why should she listen to him when he never listened to her? She asked him to return her book and he tossed it, she told him her name and he refused to use it. Whenever he talked to her, it was always to brag about himself. And every time she'd tried to talk to him about what she loved, he waved her aside. So what made him think she would want to listen to someone as conceited and arrogant as him?

But she said nothing. Instead, she smoothed her facial features into taught neutrality, expressionless as a brick wall.

Gaston was taken aback, and rather confused. She liked to use a lot of long words he couldn't understand, words that he didn't like because he couldn't understand them. But now she wasn't talking to him at all. He almost would have preferred the nerdy rant than this. Perhaps she was angry? He knew how to deal with angry women: apologize to them, just to placate them, and then like magic they're not mad anymore.

"Alright, you win. I'm sorry."

It was Isabelle's turn to be taken aback. Never had she heard Gaston apologize to anyone, much less to her. Thinking over it again, he was probably just proud about his accomplishments and wanted to share it. And he couldn't read very well, most people in town were illiterate. So maybe he just didn't know the proper way to care for a book. If he was apologizing, perhaps he wasn't so bad of a man after all.

"Fine, apology accepted. What did you want to talk about?"

Gaston released a breath of relief. Then, he sucked in another, and steeled his gaze.

He knelt on one knee.

The town gasped, and Isabelle's stomach plummeted into the ground.

"Isabella, dear Bella, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Whispers rose up around them in a circle. Lefou began biting his nails, looking as tense and distraught as Isabelle felt. She looked everywhere, to Gaston's haughty smirk, to the baker's stunned face, to the town gossiper's intense gaze. She knew what her answer would be, but with everyone staring, everyone judging and expectant and waiting, she didn't have to courage to say no.

But neither did she have the lack of good sense to say yes. Though today Gaston had apologized for his bouts of rudeness, he was still a boorish and arrogant man. She would rather be impaled by a sword than marry him. So she did what any sensible young woman in a horrid situation would do.

She ran.


	3. Chapter 2: Crazy Old Maurice

CHAPTER TWO: Crazy Old Maurice

Isabelle rushed into her house and slammed the door behind her. Only once her back was pressed firmly against the wood did she breathe a sigh of relief.

"You're panting like a wild dog, my dear."

Isabelle looked to her left, where her father loomed over a flurry of papers on his work desk. His spectacles teetered on the bridge of his nose, and several straight edges and charcoal clumps were scattered about. Maurice was a studious man; his nose was stuck in inventing as often as Isabelle's was stuck in a book.

"Sorry, Papa. I ran home as fast as I could," Isabelle responded between breaths. She tucked the stray lock of her hair behind her ear. Her father chuckled, but didn't look up from his work.

"Eager to read a new book?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Not exactly."

Maurice hummed noncommittally. Isabelle wasn't surprised; he had a lot of work to finish before the fair. She took a moment to catch her breath before setting her things on the table.

"The bishop gave me a book today, since I read it so much," Isabelle said.

"Oh? That's awfully kind of him. I'm sure you must be excited."

She smiled. "Yes, very. You should read it sometime, Papa. I don't know if you would love it, but it would be nice to have someone to talk to about it."

Maurice shoved a large stack of papers off the desk and picked up a thin metal tool. He regarded it briefly before nodding to himself. "Certainly. If you love it I'm sure it must be a wonderful book. But why talk with this codgy old coot, hm?"

Isabelle hesitated. Her father never had any trouble making friends; he drove right past awkward beginnings and always loved chattering about anything with anyone. She couldn't exactly tell him that it wasn't that easy for her, she didn't think he'd quite understand.

"There's not really anyone in the village I can talk to."

"No one? What about that Gaston fellow? He's handsome."

Isabelle felt her heart seize, but she forced it to relax. "Oh, he's handsome alright. And rude, and conceited, and egotistical, and arrogant and-" she huffed, and tucked the stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I've tried talking with him, but he only ever wants to talk about himself. Any time I bring up a book, he changes the subject or he leaves."

"Well that's a rude thing to do, isn't it?" A loud metal _clang_ sounded as Maurice tinkered. "Gaston's adored by the whole town; even Lefou's in love with him, the poor fool. Can't judge by appearances, can you?"

"I suppose not…"

At her distant tone, Maurice finally looked up from his desk. Isabelle looked frazzled and frightened, not to mention mud caking her boots and the hem of her dress, with a stray leaf or two stuck to her hair. He approached his daughter with concern.

"Isabelle, are you alright? You're a mess."

"I could say the same of you, Papa," she replied. Maurice's fingers were black with charcoal bits, and his graying hair grew from his scalp like a wild bush. His vest was inside out, misbuttoned, and his cravat had long since gone askew. Charcoal remnants dusted his chin, his rolled sleeves, and even the whiskers from his shaved mustache. He looked over himself briefly before chuckling.

"Inventing isn't a very clean profession, my dear. But reading, on the other hand, should keep you quite tidy. So why have you come home such a mess?"

Isabelle ducked her head and pulled on her sleeve. "I'm sorry. I'll go freshen up."

"Wait, that's not what I-" but Isabelle tore up the stairs and into the washroom before he could finish.

She scooped some water from the bucket and splashed it on her face. She felt ashamed that her father had to see her like that, so unkempt, so vulnerable, so weak. She was supposed to be the strong one now, yet here she was running away from a simple question. How could she let her father see her being so fragile? Now he would worry, and fuss over her to no end, and then he wouldn't finish his invention in time. The fair was only in a few days, and he needed it to be done by then. How could she do this to him?

She took a deep breath, and bottled all of her emotions into that breath. Then, as she exhaled, she buried the emotions deep within herself so she couldn't find them. Her embarrassment, her fear, her insecurities, all of it too far down to tap into. Content that she had controlled herself, she opened the door again and walked back down the stairs.

"I'm going to get started on the chores," Isabelle commented before walking back out the front door. She gave her father no time to reply; she wasn't sure she'd want to hear him try to get her to open up to him again.

As she finished up her chores, guilt began to burrow inside Isabelle. Her father just wanted to make sure she was safe and happy. He was kind and clever; she knew that if she talked to him, he would understand. But she didn't want to burden him like that. He'd lost his wife already, and soon he would have to lose his daughter when she married. Though he hid it well, with contented chuckles and wry wit, Isabelle managed to catch glimpses of despair in his eyes, hanging tight to his lashes. She didn't want to make him sadder than he already was.

So she never told him about Gaston's proposal. She never told him about the whispers of the townsfolk as she walked, the people who wanted to like her but just couldn't, the places she dreamed of seeing, the things she dreamed of doing. The pain from losing her mother.

Once dusk had settled in, and the last rays of sunset disappeared beyond the hills, Isabelle returned back inside. Maurice was sitting in his chair by the fireplace, legs propped up and smoking pipe on his lips.

"You're not still tinkering?" Isabelle asked. Maurice looked up, and brought down his feet from the resting stool.

"No, I thought that rather… we should talk," Maurice admitted warily. The last thing he wanted was for his daughter to go storming off again.

Dread filled Isabelle's stomach. "But, the fair's in just a few days. Surely you need to use this time to finish your work," she reasoned. She tucked the loose lock of hair behind her hair.

Maurice shook his head, and gestured to the other chair at the fireplace. Isabelle wanted to argue further, but she didn't want to hurt her father any more. So she sat.

"I know it's been hard, Isabelle," Maurice began. "Losing your mother, moving to a new town…" Isabelle nodded. "It hasn't even been that long. 2 years is hardly enough time to adjust to such big changes. And I know I haven't made things any easier, by being so busy all the time."

Isabelle felt tears begin to well up in her eyes. He father was doing everything he could, and she understood that. He didn't need to defend himself.

"I've tried my best to do right by you, my dear. I've been working day and night on my inventions so that I can sell them and earn us money, always stopped during dinner so we could share it together. And I make sure that I talk with you every day, as much as I can. But I suppose it's not enough…"

Isabelle shook her head adamantly. "No, Papa, don't say that. You're doing everything you possibly can, I know that. I love our talks, and eating dinner together. You've even been going to less fairs around the country just so you can spend time with me."

"About that…" Maurice began. "I've decided it would be best that I don't attend next week's fair."

"What!?"

"It's clear that I've been neglecting you, and no father should act that way. Furthermore, if you haven't yet found a husband who will provide for you, well, I'm getting on in age and might not be around much longer…"

"Papa, no, _please_ don't," Isabelle begged. "You _have _to go to the fair! You've been working tirelessly all year on your new invention! And you haven't been to one fair since last year! How will you get recognition if you don't go? How can you get money?"

"But you-"

"But _you _love inventing! I can't ask you to stay home just for me! I would be furious! Mother would be furious!"

"Isabelle, please don't bring your mother into this," Maurice gently chided.

Isabelle stopped, swallowing her emotions again. She turned her face to stone, still as pond water on a windless day.

Maurice's heart broke to see his daughter stoic and closed. She was never like this when she was a child; she was sunny and carefree and spirited. But after her mother died, she had trouble expressing her emotions. Every time she got close to showing him how she really felt, to revealing all the things she was thinking inside, she did this.

"I'm sorry, Papa," she stated coldly. Maurice clenched his fist tight.

"Isabelle, I didn't mean for this to get so out of hand. I just...I wish you would open up more."

She stared at him silently, unmoved.

"It doesn't have to be me," Maurice continued, forlorn. "Just, anyone. I know you said there's no one in the village you can talk to, but if you could find someone… I'm worried about you, my dear. I want to see you lively again."

Silence hung in the air.

Finally, when Maurice could no longer bear the silence, he sighed. "If it's what you really want, then I'll go to the fair." Isabelle's eyebrows shifted up, a bit of surprise and relief peeking through the cracks of her facade. "It's a few days' journey, so I'll need to be done before next week. Why don't you head to bed for now my dear?"

"Yes, Papa." Isabelle stood and walked up the stairs. When Maurice heard the gentle click of her bedroom door closing, he sighed once more. His daughter was far from emotionless, but whenever she got too worked up, she pretended that she was. But he was powerless to help her. All he could do was pray that she would learn to open up to someone.


	4. Chapter 3: The Enchanted Castle

CHAPTER 3: The Enchanted Castle

The morning of Maurice's departure, Isabelle was in much better spirits, and it relieved the old man's heart. She had helped him pack all the essentials, as well as plenty of supplies for the road. The morning sun was just beginning to show on the horizon line, lighting the clear skies. There was a mass of clouds in the far corner of the view, but Maurice anticipated he would be safely at the fairgrounds before the storm hit.

He sat atop his trusted horse Philippe, breathing in the morning air. It was crisp, but fresh. A gentle breeze blew by, and he instinctively reached a hand to his scalp to protect the balding spot from the cold wind.

"Try this." Isabelle approached, carrying Maurice's gray travelling hat.

He smiled. "Oh, thank you. I'm definitely going to use that."

He took the hat and set it atop his bushy hair. Rather than flattening the wily locks, they grew around the hat, covering his ears. Isabelle giggled.

"Now, my dear, before I'm off, what can I get you from the fair?"

Isabelle shook her head. "Papa, you know that I only want your safe return."

He frowned in mock annoyance. "No, no, that simply won't do. I'm going as a favor to you, and in return, I _insist_ that you let me bring you something home as a favor to me. Anything you like. Name it, it's yours. Dresses? Fine jewelry? A book?"

Isabelle thought for a moment. While the idea of a new book was tempting, she couldn't ask her father to buy one for her. They were quite expensive; some books cost more than her father could possibly make from his inventions. She looked at the wildflowers growing in the fields, marguerites and pansies, and saw how fragile the blooms were, how violently they swayed even in the easy morning breeze. It reminded her of her mother, the last few months before she passed.

"A rose," she said finally. "A strong one, that will survive as long as possible."

Maurice blinked a few times, unsure of his daughter's request. A rose would not be difficult to find at the fair, and they were rather cheap, but was that really all she wanted?

Remembering their fight a few days prior, Maurice shook his head. Whatever Isabelle wanted, he would get for her. It was clear she was struggling, and he wanted to help her any way he could. If that meant only buying her a flower, then that was what he would do. "Very well then," he said, adjusting his gray travelling hat. "A rose for the young lady."

"You'd best be careful on your way there," Isabelle warned. "They say there's a beast hiding in those woods."

Maurice chuckled. "Heard that from the gossip monger, did you? You needn't worry my dear. Half the things she says are made up, and the other half are fabricated!" Isabelle laughed, and it quelled her worries. Her father and many others had made the trip through the woods just fine, and that wasn't going to change just because the village busybody invented a rumor.

Maurice adjusted his cap once more for good measure, double-checked that his cart was securely fastened to Philippe, then he cracked the whip and set off. Isabelle waved to him, and he waved back, all the way until he disappeared from sight.

Maurice had traveled the path to the fairgrounds many times, so there wasn't much room for surprise. The winding dirt road had many split paths and shortcuts that many adventurous travelers liked to explore, but while Maurice was creative, he was not adventurous. So he stayed on the tried and true path, even if it was a bit longer.

He reached the edge of the woods, the forests that the villagers loved to gossip about. They claimed all sorts of horrors laid within; feral wolves, a haunted castle, a cackling witch, a hideous beast. But he never believed the rumors. After all, in a town where they loved interesting information far more than they loved the truth, fantastical things were far from likely.

The woods overhead became unbearably thick as he traveled on, blocking out all rays of sunlight. Even in spaces where he thought he could catch a glimpse of the sky, it was a pitch gray, almost black. _Strange_, he thought, _surely the storm hasn't rolled in so quickly. Has it?_ He couldn't tell. Perhaps the woods were just too thick, and the spots he thought were sky were truly just more branches. Still, it was troubling. He rode on, more warily than before, tension stiffening his arms.

Before Maurice knew it, he was being pelted by raindrops. He chided himself for misjudging the storm's distance, but mostly he was worried about his supplies getting soaked. He had to stop and dismount to readjust everything, all the while the drops soaking into his skin and making him shiver from the cold.

As he went to remount Philippe, he stopped suddenly, hearing crackling and smelling smoke in the air. Philippe felt it too, judging by his nervous eye-twitching and stiff stance.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning shot from the sky.

It landed mere inches from Philippe's front hoof, and he roared in fear. His eyes wide and disoriented, he began bucking and kicking and screeching. When Maurice tried to approach to calm him down, Philippe reared back and kicked Maurice's stomach. The old man launched back and hit the ground hard, stunning the consciousness out of him. Disoriented, panicked, and without his owner, Philippe turned and sprinted back towards the village.

* * *

When Maurice came to, his chest ached terribly. He felt nauseous and queasy, and he was soaked to the bone. His trusty cap, meant to ward off the rain, was limp and drooping low enough to cover his eyes. Slowly, shakily, determinedly, Maurice forced himself to stand. He had lost the path and had no way of knowing where it was, so instead he hobbled around the forest searching for decent cover from the pouring rain.

He knew there was no way he could make the fair now. Even if he found the path and made it to the grounds, and even if he made it in time, he had no camping supplies and there was no inn, so he would likely freeze to death later that night. Not to mention he might need medical attention from Philippe's earlier kick. He gently pressed a hand to his upper stomach, the area closest to his ribs. He didn't feel any bleeding or obvious wounds, but it was tender to the touch and frozen from the cold rain, so he couldn't be sure. Philippe was a smart horse, so Maurice hoped that meant he'd be alright. Perhaps he even made it back to the village safely, with his invention and supplies in tact. But without him, Maurice had no hope of making it to the fair.

And if he missed the fair, he couldn't follow through on his promise to Isabelle. He could practically see the crushed and heartbroken face she would make if he told her. He had to find his way back home. But first, he had to find adequate shelter from the storm.

After hobbling and shivering in the cold downpour for what felt like hours, he stumbled upon a large iron-wrought gate with high stone walls stretching out from either side. He gulped, and pushed one of the swinging barred doors. It opened. Maurice stepped into the grounds, and saw a little ways in the distance a looming gothic castle. It was starting to collapse, parts of the tower chipped away and crumbling. If a lord did live in this castle, he had long since neglected it.

As he walked to the main doorway, Maurice spotted a hedge garden to the left. It was unruly and overgrown, with leaves and branches sprouting randomly. Through the brambles and the rain, a splotch of red color caught Maurice's eye. He squinted, and thought for certain that he saw a red rose bush peeking out overtop the hedges.

_Isabelle_, he thought. But he continued towards the house. If the lord really was here, it would be horribly rude to steal his property without asking. Besides, he could get the present for Isabelle after he was warm, dry, and healthy. Finding her present would do him no good if he couldn't get it back to her.

Maurice hesitantly knocked on the looming door. He waited a moment and pressed his ear to the wood. He heard odd clanking footsteps. Then, the door opened on its own.

"Impressive mechanism," Maurice mumbled to himself. He stepped inside and the door closed behind him.

He marveled at the emptiness of the grand front hall. No footservants, no butlers, no maids, no one. He grabbed a nearby candelabra and held it up to cast a bit of light into the dark castle.

"Hello?" he called. "Is anyone home?" He continued his way down the main hall, looking for signs of life. "I do apologize for barging in, but I needed shelter from the storm. I've lost my way you see, as well as my horse and my livelihood. I also might have some nasty bruises and may have caught a cold."

"Oh, le pauvre vieux."

Maurice stopped and swiveled around. No one in sight. He stopped and held up the light to the dark corners obscured by shadows. No one was there.

"Lumière, what do you think you're doing?" A different voice. More stodgy and gruff, less lilting and smooth.

"Come now, Cogsworth," said the first voice again. "We could not turn away a guest. We must be hospitable. And besides, he needs help. How can we deny it of him?"

"Yes, help would be very much appreciated, whoever you are," Maurice chimed in. He heard a hearty laughter, right next to his ear.

Realization dawning, or perhaps it was madness, Maurice turned to the candelabra in his hand. The wax on the center candle melted into a charming face, and it winked at him.

He dropped the candelabra as if a spider had jumped onto his hand. The candelabra groaned as it hit the floor, then used the two outer sticks to pick itself up. "Well, that was rude. And here I was trying to help you."

"You...you're…"

"My name is Lumière, the head butler of this fine establishment." The candelabra bowed low, waving the outer stick in a flourish as if it were an arm. "Allow me to be the first to welcome you, monsieur…?"

"M-Maurice…" he croaked out, his throat dry. Had he finally gone senile? The townspeople liked to say that he was a loony, but this was on a whole other level.

"Lumière, stop it! He's an intruder!" argued the stodgy voice. A strange clanking sounded from a nearby table, and Maurice realized the table clock was talking. What on earth was going on?

"He's a guest!" Lumière countered. The clock hopped off the table and waddled over to Lumière, appearing very upset.

Maurice decided that if he had indeed finally gone insane, he should at least investigate the machines that his mind created. He knelt down and picked up the clock, who made several very alarmed and angered noises.

"What a fascinating mechanism," Maurice moved. "An automated clock that can move all on its own, not to mention replicate human speech. And have its own personality! What an incredible machine. Now, as for the candelabra, your craftsman must be skilled beyond belief. I have never seen anything so exquisite in my entire life."

"Un_hand_ me you filthy intruder!" the clock cried.

"Be nice, Cogsworth, he just complimented you," Lumière said. Under his breath, he added, "Though you don't deserve it."

The clock, Cogsworth, halted his grumbling for a moment and looked to be quite pleased with himself. Then he remembered he was supposed to be angry. "Leave the castle at once! If the master found out about this, he would be furious!"

"Your master?" Maurice asked. He set Cogsworth down on the floor, freeing him. "So someone _does_ live here. Could you take me to see him?"

Lumière and Cogsworth exchanged a nervous look. Maurice had a feeling he hit a sensitive subject.

"What do you want to see him for?" Cogsworth asked.

"I wanted to get a present for my daughter. She's been terribly lonely, and the least I could do is bring her back something she'd like. The lord has many flowers in his garden, and it doesn't seem well-kept, so I was hoping he wouldn't mind parting with one."

Lumière and Cogsworth's eyes widened. "You have a daughter?" Lumière asked.

"Yes, and she's-" Maurice sneezed ferociously. The force of it agitated the wound in his stomach, which caused him to keel over and groan.

Lumière made a pouting puppy face at Cogsworth, who rolled his eyes in turn. Finally, he sighed. "You should at least warm yourself by the fire. Old men collapsing in the grand hall is deplorable. This way to the drawing room."

Cogsworth and Lumière clunked a little further down the hall and turned into the drawing room, fireplace already lit. Maurice tried not to think about how strange it was that he was following a sentient clock and candlestick.

The room was surprisingly inviting and tidy, despite the neglect evident on the castle's exterior. The moment the warmth of the fireplace reached Maurice's skin, he breathed a sigh of relief. Lumière gestured to the large chair by the fireplace, which Maurice gratefully sank into.

"Why don't we get you something to drink? Some tea for our guest, please," Lumière called.

"No! No tea!" Cogsworth barked. "Think of what would happen if the master found out!" Lumière waved him away, unperturbed.

A side door opened and Maurice saw a tea tray wheel itself in. The teapot's design seemed quite face-like, and Maurice wasn't even surprised when it spoke to him.

"Goodness me, luv! You look sicker than a dog, that you do. Here, a nice cup o tea ta warm ya right up." The teapot poured some of her tea into a little teacup, which hopped into Maurice's hand. He held it up to his eyes and marveled at it.

"Aren't you thirsty?" it asked. Maurice let out a laugh before sipping the tea. It was the perfect temperature, and warmed him from the inside out.

"What's your name, little one?" Maurice asked.

"I'm Chip!" replied the teacup. "And that's my mama," he said, gesturing towards the teapot.

"Mrs. Potts, dearie. Pleased ta meet ya."

Maurice was about to reply when the wound in his side flared up again, causing him to wince and groan.

"Oh dear are you alright?"

Maurice shook his head once the pain had subsided. "Unfortunately my horse got spooked during the storm, and he reared up in fear before running off. I got stuck on the wrong end of his strong kick."

"Get the doctor!" Lumière commanded. Cogsworth shook his head stubbornly, handles crossed in defiance. Lumière sighed. He rushed off into the hallway himself, a strange poise in the way he clunked around. Before Maurice even had a chance to ask Mrs. Potts to refill his cup, a stuffed mallard waddled into the drawing room. It held a doctor's bag under one of its wings and had a head mirror wrapped around its head. Maurice almost laughed.

"Are you the intruder requiring medical attention?" the duck asked, voice monotonous and flat. Maurice nodded, smile toying on his face despite himself.

"Why do you all keep saying 'intruder'? He's a guest!" Lumière insisted. The duck looked unamused as he opened his bag and began rifling through the contents.

"If he has not been invited, he cannot be a guest."

Cogsworth smirked. "See? I told you!" Lumière stuck out his tongue at him. Maurice couldn't help but chuckle at the childish display.

The plush duck pulled out a stethoscope and began examining Maurice's vital signs. He started mumbling to himself, and Maurice hoped it was due to a personality quirk rather than him being afraid to break the news to an irreparably injured man.

"Do you have a name as well, doctor?" Maurice asked.

The stuffed duck didn't reply for a while, still examining and gently testing Maurice's wounds. After a bit, as if he had just realized Maurice had spoken, he said "Canard." Maurice chuckled to himself; all of these strange creations had such unique and colorful personalities, rich enough to stand out even among humans.

After a bit, Dr. Canard nodded to himself. "You are fortunate; the abrasion is not too severe. You are heavily bruised but nothing is broken. I suggest adequate rest, somewhere warm, dry, and comfortable."

Maurice marveled at the toy duck that just gave him a doctor's examination. Its stitches were beginning to come undone a little, but other than that it was well-cared for and charmingly adorable. He could imagine himself playing with such a toy when he was a child, or buying one for his own daughter back when she was small. Yet it was walking, talking, thinking, and capable of making complex and informed decisions. This went beyond machinery. The duck didn't even have any machine parts to him, just stuffing and cloth. Maurice began to grow suspicious.

"My compliments to the craftsman who made you all. Was it the same artisan? Do you know?"

"We weren't made by a craftsman!" Chip said. "I used to be a real boy!"

A tense silence rose up between Mrs. Potts, Lumière, and Cogsworth. Even Dr. Canard seemed to stiffen.

Maurice chuckled, bemused and intrigued. "You used to be a real boy, hm? How did you come to be a teacup then, little one?"

Chip opened his mouth to say more, but no sound would come out. Mrs. Potts swooped in. "Oh Chip would you look at that, it's _much_ past your bedtime. Sayin' strange things that you made up from the top o' your head cuz you're so tired, you are. Come along then, to bed with you."

"But I'm not tired, Mama."

"Oh of course you are. You're makin up rubbish; you must need a good rest."

"But I didn't make up anything! It's true!" But before Chip could object further, Mrs. Potts hopped off the tea cart and it wheeled itself back through the other door.

"Amusing and frivolous creatures, children," Lumière remarked.

"Yes, saying things that absolutely aren't true. How silly." Cogsworth laughed uneasily. Dr. Canard shrugged.

Maurice was a simple man, but he was far from a simpleton. He knew something was off about the entire exchange, and that somehow little Chip's words rang true. But before he could think on it too much, he felt a slight tremor beneath him.

"Did you all feel that?"

But they did not respond. Instead, their faces had gone wide-eyed and pale. Maurice's heart began to race. What was so odd and frightening that even sentient objects feared it?

Then, a ferocious roar cried out. The roar was part wolf, part fury, and part nightmare. The din reverberated against the walls, against the thick air, and against Maurice's bones. It struck him cold, colder than the icy rain, and froze his breath in his lungs.

Then, a thunderous stampede of footsteps. They got louder, and louder, and pounded in Maurice's skull. They echoed in the castle, harsh enough to make the crumbling walls collapse. They grew heavier, louder, more insistent, more ferocious.

Then, they stopped.

The doors to the drawing room flew open, completely extinguishing the fire. Maurice's teeth chattered in his skull, but slowly he found the will to turn in his chair and look to the doors behind him.

His blood turned cold.

Before him loomed a hideous beast, tall as a tower and wide as a boulder. He stood on his hind legs, back claws tearing at the ground where he stood. His fur was a dark gray, matted and twisted and course. His paws were bigger than Maurice's head, and the razor claws in them pulsed as if he was ready to strike. His fangs looked even sharper than his claws, crowding in his mouth and gleaming like knives. His face was distorted in the darkness, but Maurice identified a large snout and two horns on the top of his head, with canine ears and the mane of a lion. He wore simple black pants that were torn at the bottom, and a royal purple cape that filled his figure with authority.

This was the master of the castle. A disgusting, horrifying amalgamation of predators without a drop of mercy in their blood.

"What is the meaning of this!?" the beast demanded. The servants looked to one another, waiting for someone to speak up. Maurice gulped and lept from the chair.

"F-f-f-f-f-forgive my intrusion, my lord," Maurice stammered. "I came, came here for a uh, um… came here for a um..."

"Spit it out!"

"I wanted a rose! A very strong one that would last as long as possible. I wanted to take it home for my daughter!" Maurice braced himself for another outburst, but the beast was quiet. He chanced a peek and saw the beast looking contemplative, as if he was mulling over something. As if he was mulling over what spices to season Maurice with for tonight's dinner.

"You want my rose?" The beast asked, apprehensive. Maurice was confused, but he nodded vigorously.

"Yes, just a little flower, and then I was going to be on my way." Once he had gotten started, Maurice found that he couldn't stop. He began to say everything that came to his mind, fear locking the filters on his mouth. "Actually, I don't need it really, it's your property and I've already inconvenienced you more than enough as it is. Lovely hospitality by the way. I'd best be on my way so my daughter doesn't begin to worry about where I've gone. She's all grown up, but hasn't yet found a husband so she tends to worry about me constantly and I don't want to leave her alone. Again, my sincerest apologies about everything, I hope-"

"Silence!" the beast roared. Maurice promptly locked his jaw closed.

The beast's face turned contemplative again, and this time Maurice was certain the beast was wondering if roasting him would be best or if he would taste better in a stew.

Suddenly the beast grabbed the back of Maurice's shirt, taking more than half the cloth in one fistful. Maurice yelped, and the beast ripped him off his feet. He dragged the old man out of the drawing room, further and further away from his beloved Isabelle.


End file.
